Nine Lives
by HouseBear
Summary: "I just got this crazy image of you as a cat walking along this wall." He ran his fingers like legs along the stone, "And you lose your footing and fall."


Sherlock lay on the couch. His body settling perfectly into the shallow indent. It was an old couch. He'd had it awhile. His hands were pressed together, fingertips resting delicately on the cupids bow of his lip. The exhale from his nose felt warm. He focused on his breathing. Sherlock had predicted this as another "3-patch problem." He was wrong. This was a problem no amount of watered-down imitation nicotine could suppress. He needed cigarettes. He needed the inhale, the exhale. He needed the sweet smell of the filter and stain it left between his fingers. The chemicals that would set things right, set him right.

The slender detective tensed his arm, the skin pulling tort under the patches and catching. The tiny sensation was pleasant. Small. Overlooked. He tried to focus on it, to centre himself. But the traffic in his head refused to silence. He couldn't focus on anything. There was a drumming in his temples. He ached all over, despite his statue-like composure.

'Could always just get it over with,' Sherlock mused, 'there's more than one secret supply in this apartment.'

Sherlock pursed his lips, clenching his teeth tight. He had promised John. Promised he would stop, stick to the patches. Though that wasn't healthy in its own right. Abusing the patches had left them weak and his body unresponsive. It never ended. The chaos ensued and he was left distracted. Unable to solve the problems before him. His mind left to rip itself to pieces from the inside out.

Sherlock opened his eyes. The flat was dark. The curtains weren't drawn but the streetlights did little. Headlights scanned the room, casting warped shadows across the ceiling like a paper fan unfolding. Sherlocks hands slid to his knees, fingers drumming incessantly. Sporadic in tempo. His whole mind was sporadic. He needed tranquil silence. This was utter suffering. John would never think to protest if he knew just how dreadful it was inside Sherlocks head.

Sherlock turned his head, gazing across the room, his eyes groggy and tired. The skull was empty. The fireplace was swept clean. John had been ruthless in his purge. Sherlock had just sat back in his chair, violin in hand and plucked the strings. Like a passive aggressive child.

Sights settled on the far bookshelf, to he right of the fireplace. Its shelves sagged under the weight of countless encyclopaedias and almanacs. One book was not like the others. One book was different. Sherlock had made sure it was of no use before he took his pocket knife to its pages. Like a surgeon, he'd carved out a perfect square compartment. Big enough to hide a deck of cigarettes, a flask, anything of the nature.

Sherlock was already on his feet with the book in his hands. He'd decided to defy Johns efforts, best not waste anytime in doing so. John would be home soon. Another date, another fruitless effort at getting a shag. He would come home happy from his date, concealing his sexual frustration with clenched fists and 'putting the kettle on'.

Sherlock took the packet and the zippo from the secret book and put it back on the shelf. He couldn't smoke in the flat, he'd be caught and Mrs Hudson would have a fit. The roof was an obvious option. In no time, coat and shoes forgotten, Sherlock had climbed the stairs and disappeared up the fire escape at the back of 221B Baker street.

The view was a grand sight. The gold hue of the street lamps below were hazed with a layer of fog. The street glowed beautifully. Sherlock sat on the lip of the roof. One leg arched, the other dangling over the edge. His toes flexed and wriggled, the cold hardly bothered his joints.

Nimble fingers reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew the pack and lighter. Taking a cigarette to his lips, he tilted his head, cupping his hands around the tip and flicked the lighter open. The metallic note rang through the silence. The orange flame felt warm in his palms. The exposed end of the cigarette roared red. Sherlock inhaled timidly, getting the tobacco nice and hot. The lighter was flicked closed and placed with the packet on the rooftop.

First drag. Utter bliss. Exhale. The noise began to dull. The words began to fade. His mind palace becoming a sanctuary once more. His body didn't seem to ache so much. There was an audible groan of satisfaction that echoed around the rooftop. Sherlock inhaled again, holding the smoke in for a second longer. He could feel his lungs swell. The smoke escaped through his nose, ghosting over his knuckles.

It was strange to be alone. It was strange to feel strange about being alone. Sherlock had been living with John for a year now. (Almost) never a dull moment with John around. Always something to do. Even if it was just deducing what the older man had had for lunch the day. He loved Johns company. His blogger stimulated his brain better than any drug. But, it was just nice to be alone. The rooftop. The cigarettes. The soft squelch of car tyres on the wet asphalt below.

A taxi pulled up to the curb of the flat. It stood idle while its fare was paid before the door opened. John Watson emerged. Sherlock peered down, lips pursing around the filter. Inhale. New clothes. Pants, dress shirt, smart casual jacket. Whoever this woman was, he was trying to make an impression. A first impression no doubt. Someone who he works with but hasn't seen him outside the workplace. Sarah. His employer. That's one way to get promoted. Wonder if it worked in the military.  
>'Oh, John. Oh, John.' Sherlock thought, laughing silently to himself.<p>

Sherlock knew John knew where he was. 3 seconds in the dark flat. John may not be the most observant but he wasn't an idiot. The detective took one last breath before stubbing out the cigarette on the rooftop. He didn't even hesitate to light another.

The fire escape rattled. Quicker than Sherlock had expected. Johns exasperated grunts made the taller man chuckle. "Evening John."

"Sherlock wha- is that-?" The mans presence put Sherlock at ease. He leaned back further, stretching his leg out over the edge and letting it swing back and forth.

"Yes, John. The patches are useless. They no longer suppress my habit." Sherlock replied bluntly, the cigarette bouncing softly between his lips as he spoke.

"You were doing really well." John didn't even try to sound cross. He just walked over to his flat mate and sat down, leaning his arm on the ledge where Sherlock was perched.

"Indeed." Sherlock agreed, not paying attention. His mind was elsewhere. Now that he was calm he could focus. Focus on being still. John looked up at Sherlock, in slight awe at how poised and balanced he was on a foot-wide concrete ledge, teetering so close to a fall to the street below.

'That'd be bad business for Speedy's' John jested.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked, a sharp eyebrow raising.

"Oh nothing, nothing." replied John, poorly disguising a laugh.

Sherlocks mouth curved in a lazy smirk. "Come now, Watson."

"Alright, alright." John laughed again, more audibly this time. Sherlock watched him with the smallest hint of amusement on his face.

"I just got this crazy image of you as a cat walking along this wall." He ran his fingers like legs along the stone, "And you lose your footing and fall."

Sherlock blinked. The smoke twisted from his cigarette like a snake, twirling up into the night sky.

"But you'd land on your feet." John finished, prodding his friend in the foot.

"I'd survive even if I didn't." Sherlocks features softened, a genuine smile danced across his face. "I have nine lives."

John laughed again, shaking his head. "That you do Mr Holmes, that you do."

Their laughter grew louder and louder, growing from stifled chuckles to spirited howls. It reverberated among the summit of chimneys and roof tiles.  
>It was rare to see Sherlock Holmes so relaxed. It was different to seeing him watching television or drinking a cup of tea. It was like watching him sleep, thought John. It was like watching a sleeping man become lucid. The way he sat on the edge of the rooftop of 221B Baker Street without a single care in the world. His shoulders were slouched and loose. No shoes, socks or coat to protect him from the cold.<p>

The detective drew in and exhaled a marvellous array of smoke rings. They floated down towards the pavement like ghosts along a moor. John watched them ripple and fall apart. Another trait that made Sherlock brilliant. The dark-haired man let his head fall back on his shoulders, casting his eyes upward, cigarette pointing towards the stars. His eyes fluttered closed and he sighed happily. The doctor could almost see the gears in his head grind to a halt.


End file.
